what will survive of us
by shiva-goddessof
Summary: It begins on a Thursday.


It begins on a Thursday.

Sherlock has been tired and irritable for weeks; he feels, John knows, ungainly and uncomfortable, and resents the loss of his usual agility and grace. They had had a shag, gentle, playful, as much in the hopes of helping Sherlock sleep and reassuring him that John still loves and wants his body than because of any overwhelming horniness. After, Sherlock begins his regular struggle to find a comfortable sleeping position, grumbling and shifting onto his side. John presses up against him and kisses the back of his neck, resting one hand lightly on Sherlock's nine-month belly. It still gives him a shiver of something that is not quite awe and not quite fear when he feels movement under the warm skin, along with an illicit spike of alpha pride: _I did that._

"Not much longer, love. Another few weeks, a month at most, and it'll be over," he says, pressing another kiss into sweaty hair. He buries his nose in the nape of Sherlock's neck and breathes in the scents; Sherlock's, his own on Sherlock's skin, and the complex mix with notes of them both that has been blooming quietly for months.

Sherlock makes an irritated noise, but drops his head to the pillow and sighs deeply. He has said, repeatedly, how frustrating and inefficient it is that now that he actually wants to sleep, the constant internal bombardment prevents it. John lets him settle against his back and drifts off quickly, soothed by slow breathing and the regular thrum of a heartbeat.

John has a shift at the surgery the next morning, so he gets up at seven, leaving Sherlock a restless but oblivious-seeming heap under the covers. The day is as dull as ever; sick notes, muscle strains, cases of flu. If anything, John should have been suspicious about the relative quietness of his phone; a bored Sherlock is a furiously texting Sherlock, and a Sherlock with somewhat reduced mobility who is all but confined to the flat is generally making his phone burn up by the morning coffee break. (Lestrade, no fool, has been dropping round on a regular basis with cases that he 'urgently needs Sherlock's opinion on'; Sherlock abuses him roundly for the dullness of the cases and the ineptitude of the Yard, but he takes the files.) In retrospect, John really should have read more into the lack of messages along the lines of _Bring me ice when you get back. SH_ and _Your child appears to share your tiresome interest in football given the use they're currently making of my spleen. SH._

It's not until John gets home, just after six, and sees Sherlock agitatedly pacing between the kitchen and the living room that things really come together in his head, though.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock waves a hand, wincing, but doesn't stop. He's wearing pyjama bottoms, slung low, and an old T-shirt of John's, stretched considerably.

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"I'm fairly certain - " Sherlock pauses and puts one hand on his back - "that I am in labour."

John's stomach feels very heavy all of a sudden.

"Jesus, Sherlock. For how long?"

"Approximately - " Sherlock breaks off to navigate the coffee table, then circles it and comes back. "- Eight hours, give or take."

John puts his fist up against his mouth, in lieu of putting it through Sherlock's face. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You couldn't have texted? Called? Why the fuck didn't you say something?"

"What could you have done? Come home, and hung around pointlessly all day? Or sat there and worried, probably misdiagnosing someone and beating yourself up for what a bad doctor and parent you are? Early labour can last for more than twelve hours. There was time."

"You - okay, fine. Fine. Not really the point, but we'll discuss that later. How are you doing now? How far apart are they?"

"Approximately seven minutes or so." He winces again, and adds, "...I think."

The latter words are so out of character that John drops his automatic movement towards the bedroom, where the bag of clothes is, and turns to stare at him.

"It's... difficult to keep track," Sherlock explains, looking at the ground and swallowing.

John lets his mouth quirk. Only his madman would be concerned about his inability to properly measure and record the process at this point. Still, his doctor's knowledge (check his vitals, call the midwife, probably not time to leave yet) is warring desperately with his need to do _something_, to protect, to get Sherlock somewhere safe as fast as humanly possible. He feels a spark of panic threatening to ignite, and chokes it off with grim determination.

"Okay. Well, that's not quite at the point where they'd probably tell us to come in, so we should just... Sherlock. Will you sit down?"

Sherlock continues pacing. "No."

John licks his lips. "Why not?"

"Can't stand it. Not comfortable." Sherlock crosses behind their chairs and begins his circuit again.

Accepting the inevitable, John has begun to lower himself to the couch when Sherlock suddenly hisses and slams his fist against the wall. His face tightens and he breathes heavily, one hand going to the small of his back as he leans into the wall. John is up again in an instant.

"Are you OK? Sherlock? Can I... do anything?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock grits out, scowling. "It's normal. And unless you're prepared to inject me with intravenous painkillers..."

"Okay, okay. Jesus." It's going to be a long night.

It doesn't get any shorter.

Sherlock's restlessness doesn't dissipate; when they are finally at the hospital and led to a room, around 9pm, he consents to sit down for long enough for a brief physical examination, but struggles to his feet again as soon as it is over. John's nervousness is only checked by the fact that everything seems normal... so far, but the growing intensity and frequency of the bouts of pain, and Sherlock's stubborn determination to grit his way through without help is beginning to wear on John's nerves.

He's sent the few quick texts he needs to, the one to Sarah to say _Sherlock's in labour; won't be able to do any shifts for a few weeks,_ and quick messages to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft. He hesitates over the last, but knows that Mycroft will find out anyway, probably already knows if John's suspicions about how closely he monitors his brother are true, and trying to keep him out will almost certainly prolong the agony. He deletes the sent text afterwards, not putting it past Sherlock to steal his phone even under current conditions.

The beta midwife is calm and quiet in a way that should be reassuring, but that John, feeling increasingly redundant, is beginning to resent.

"We'll check on you regularly, Mr. Holmes. Nothing to do but wait for a few hours."

Sherlock scowls again, and, as soon as she's gone, heaves himself to his feet. "I'm going to walk. Walking's good, isn't it? It's one of the things you're supposed to do. Gravity. Brilliant. Gravity." He pauses to breathe heavily.

John sighs. "Fine. OK. Walking. But take it slow, all right?"

"Are you going to follow me around until this is over?" Sherlock snaps, summoning up a reasonable facsimile of a flounce towards the door.

John crosses his arms. "Yes. Of course I bloody am. Are you mad?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

This is not how he pictured this going.

They walk.

Sherlock's steps are slow; he stops frequently to breathe, to clench his fist, to lean heavily against the wall. He is silent, although it's clearly an increasing effort. His answers to John's quiet questions have become shorter and shorter. But he straightens up, and continues putting one foot doggedly in front of the other. John stops too, rubs gently at his back, murmurs soothing things in as calm a tone as he can muster. He hopes it's helping one of them.

They pace the corridors, quietly. People move around them; other Omegas and their partners, Beta women with tension in their faces. Things are alternatively noisy and quiet. Babies wail; there are cries and groans. It all seems strangely far away from their silent, solitary processional.

They are sitting in the room – Sherlock quiet for once on the bed, with his eyes closed, John in the chair watching him – when the midwife re-enters and says quietly to John, "A Mr. Mycroft Holmes is in the waiting area. He's being very persistent."

John glances at Sherlock, whose eyes are still closed. "OK. I'll deal with it. Thanks." He crouches slightly in front of Sherlock, watching for a response in the eyes flickering behind closed lids. "Sherlock? I'll be back in a minute, OK? I need to go and speak to... er, someone."

Sherlock doesn't reply.

The digital clock on the wall reads 11:37.

The sight of Mycroft , calmly seated with his hands folded on the handle of his umbrella, is a positive relief, and John feels a welcome flare of anger at the expression on his face. Lestrade is hovering behind him, looking worried, which John blinks at, then determinedly files for later review.

"Ah, John." Mycroft unfolds magisterially. "How is my brother?"

John wishes he knew. "Doing OK so far, I suppose."

"His stubbornness in not accepting my help is quite unnecessary. I could arrange for a much more comfortable room, you know."

John feels a wave of blessed _rightness_ coursing down his spine. This, he can do.

"No. Mycroft. No. Sherlock is busy right now, okay? He needs safety, he needs privacy, and he needs me with him and not worrying about those things. And you will give them to him. Keep him safe, put a cordon of your security people right round the bloody hospital if you have to, but you will _stay out_. You will not hack into CCTV, you will not bribe the doctors, you will not send your people in dressed as cleaners, or whatever plan you're cooking up in that damned Holmesian head of yours. You can stay here, or you can go home, but you will get your news _when I tell it to you_ and not before. Clear?"

John has spent enough hours studying Sherlock now that he can read the subtle twitches of Mycroft's face rather better than he used to. He looks... very slightly _impressed_. He also looks worried. _I worry about him, constantly_ drifts across his mind. John relents slightly.

"Look. Everything seems normal at the moment, but I need to get back to him. I'll let you know if anything changes, OK? It'll probably be a few hours yet."

Mycroft nods, smoothes his trousers, rebuttons his jacket, his face implacable again. "Of course, Doctor Watson. As you wish."

John has to duck into the bathroom for a second before he goes back to the room.

Because Sherlock – Sherlock never wanted this - would never have initiated this on his own. But there had been the case, that dragged on for day after sleepless day, and Sherlock's cycle had become confused, and the missed pill –

And John had simply not been able to keep his feelings from his face when Sherlock told him.

It was stupid of him, _stupid_, to think an Alpha and an Omega could fuck for this long and not –

John splashes cold water on his face and tells himself sternly to get a fucking grip.

Sherlock tells him at the beginning of week seven.

The ensuing explosion of emotion takes several days to resolve itself, but more and more it kaleidoscopes back into two things: a shy, fragile, stubborn happiness, and an overwhelming and all-encompassing fear.

In week eight, Sherlock doesn't eat for two days and then faints in the corridor outside Lestrade's office at New Scotland Yard. John asks him what in the seven hells he was thinking; Sherlock looks down at his feet and mutters something about it usually taking much longer. John loses his temper so completely that he scares himself and a good proportion of Lestrade's team and perhaps even Sherlock, given the minimal level of sullen muttering and resistance he displays at being frogmarched to the nearest vending machine. Later that day, Lestrade asks him out for a pint and brings two back to the table and then looks at John with his calm and open policeman's face, and John sighs and puts both elbows on the table and drops his face into his hands.

The nausea kicks in in week nine.

In week twelve, Sherlock lies with his head in John's lap, exhausted and queasy. John threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair and screws his courage together as best he can.

"I wish I could do this for you, you know."

"Mmm." Sherlock turns his face into John's belly. "I'm sure you'd love to take this on."

He has to say this while he can. "You... don't have to do this if you don't want to."

Sherlock's face is hidden; there is a pause before he speaks, but his voice is even. "But you want to."

It's not a question, but it has to be answered. "I... do. I think I do. But you're more important, Sherlock."

Sherlock's voice is still muffled by John's shirt. "I don't do things I don't want to do."

"Okay. I know. I know. I just... wanted you to know."

Sherlock burrows further in. "Thank you."

At fourteen weeks, someone holds a gun to Sherlock's head for five minutes and John very nearly loses his mind.

Week fifteen features a tantrum. After four days without a case and consequently without leaving the flat or getting dressed, Sherlock is forced to concede that his suits no longer fit him. He borrows one of John's shirts, rolls up the sleeves and leaves it untucked, and storms out of the flat trailing clouds of righteous indignation.

"Sherlock, you're looking swell," cracks Lestrade. Sherlock levels a glare and snaps, "Puns are beneath you, Lestrade," before striding past to the body. Sherlock's general beanpole physique is working against him, John has to admit; he's far from huge, but the slight swell is unmistakable. John can't stop looking at it. He's slightly more rounded in the face as well, which makes him look strangely young and innocent. John wishes he had ever thought to ask Mycroft for some old family photos.

Week eighteen; John wakes blearily the night after a concluded case and stumbles downstairs to make tea. Sherlock is curled on the sofa in a way that's strangely unlike his usual messy sprawl. John flicks the switch on the kettle and starts a less-than-hopeful rummage for teabags.

"It's moving."

"What?"

"John." Sherlock's voice is low and quiet. "It's moving."

John's face breaks into a smile somehow before the words even really register. He scrambles to the sofa.

"I don't think you can feel it." Sherlock, anticipating him as always. "I can't feel it from the outside yet."

"What's it like?"

"Odd."

That about sums it up, he supposes. He touches the side of Sherlock's face affectionately.

In week twenty-two, Lestrade doesn't text and Sarah doesn't call and they spend two and a half days in bed. Sherlock is hungry for touch and John is happy to provide. They sleep and wake and sleep stickily entwined, before Sherlock wakes restless and rolls away to pace the living room.

It is week twenty-four when Sherlock first catches his hand and guides it down to where he can feel a distinct jab against his palm.

At week twenty-eight, the coat stops buttoning. John, standing behind and pulling on his own jacket, sees Sherlock's hands still suddenly; sees him stand motionless for a moment before quietly pulling the coat off and hanging it back up. He pulls a scarf around his neck and walks out in his open suit jacket, spine straight, strides long. John thinks, following him, that someone who doesn't know him would think him, at this moment, confident.

Thirty weeks dawns and there is a case. Sherlock scowls at food and refuses to eat it, and then – John's heart rate climbs – picks up the nicotine patches tauntingly. And there is shouting, and Sherlock yells back, and all the buttons are, inevitably, pushed.

"You're such a _child_," he hears himself spit.

There is a moment of perfect stillness, both of them on the precipice, the cracks growing and spreading. And then Sherlock's eyes narrow and he is gone, whirl of limbs, slam of door. He leaves his phone. John sits still for a while, _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_ trying to crawl up his throat and spill uselessly from his mouth.

Sherlock comes back well after midnight and crawls quietly into bed, keeping to his side and moving with an awkwardness that tells John his back is hurting. John is not sleeping. John has been staring at the inside of his eyelids and thinking miserably, _too late too late too late_.

"I'm sorry," he says, because he cannot bear to think any more, of all the ways this can fuck up their lives, the baby's life, Sherlock's life.

Sherlock doesn't answer for a while, but his breathing seems a little steadier. John reaches out, needing to ground himself on the warmth, the reality, of what they have created, fights the urge to bury his face in Sherlock and smell everywhere he's been and cover him in John's own scent. Sherlock wriggles closer and draws John's hand down to the small of his back.

(It's also around week thirty that Sherlock literally trips over a photographer lurking idly near the Savoy while following up a case on the Strand. Following a brief and lively exchange of words, a photograph appears in an inner section of the _Sun _three days later under the headline "SHERLOCK BLOOMS!" John reads the paper first and can't suppress a smirk; when he picks it up again to throw it out, the page is missing.)

It's at week thirty-five that spending extended periods of time pacing crime scenes and chasing criminals finally becomes maybe a little too much.

It is 1:08am and John Watson's world has shrunk to three facts, which he knows with the fervour and certainty of those who found religions.

That this is his mate, and this is their child. That both of them are terribly vulnerable right now. That he will cheerfully and instantaneously kill, with hands and teeth and _claws_, anyone who ever threatens either of them.

Sherlock is very far away now; the brilliant logical mind helpless, all of his attention turned inwards as he fights to respond to the ancient and demanding pull of his body. His breathing is noisy, his hair wet with sweat, his body tensing and going limp as he contracts, pants for air, contracts again.

The room is warm and dim, and quiet except for the sound of Sherlock's harsh breathing. He is still on his feet, but his exhaustion is evident in his pallor and the trembling of his muscles. He has refused painkillers, ignored coaxing to get onto the bed. At the moment he is kneeling, both palms flat on the wall, with the Beta midwife crouched on one side and John on the other. John rubs soothingly at his back, murmurs quietly, tries not to notice the way Sherlock is clenching his jaw against crying out, tries not to feel as thoroughly useless and stupid as he's ever felt in his life.

Sherlock groans loudly as the contraction passes off; he slumps slightly and then staggers to his feet again, towards the bed, which he leans over heavily and then with fumbling fingers pulls off the hospital gown he had eventually been persuaded into, exposing the long pale body that John loves so, has spent so much time teasing and learning and fucking and loving. Drops of sweat roll down the hollow of his spine. John can't quite help his alarmed look at the midwife (Suzy? Lucy?). She catches his gaze immediately, and her eyes sharpen.

"It's fine," she says in an undertone. "As long as he stays warm. He's doing fine, they both are."

Sherlock's anguished exhale cuts off any continuation of this exchange; another contraction tears through him and he curls desperately around his elbows on the bed. He pants breathily, then escalates into a high, frail cry.

"I don't want to," he says blurrily. "I don't want to, let me go!"

John is beside him in a second, struggles with himself, places a hand - awkwardly chaste and inadequate - on his shoulder. "You can't, Sherlock," he says, hearing his voice, to his horror, crack and thicken. "You can't. You've got to stay. I'm sorry."

Sherlock clenches his fist in the sheets and wails.

"You're doing fine, Sherlock," Suzy-Lucy says calmly from his other side, guiding Sherlock back to the half-nest of blankets and mats and pillows on the floor, and John hates her, hates the sound of Sherlock's name so light in her mouth, with a sudden and burning intensity he knows will shame him later. Sherlock crumples to all fours; she's doing - something - checking him again; John tries to blink the betraying wetness from his eyes and pull it the fuck together. It is _his job_ to keep Sherlock safe - he'd stand in the way of anything - _anything -_ but this -

"Eight centimetres," she says quietly. "You're almost there."

Sherlock moans, rocks forward and back on his hands. Rounds his spine and whines, loudly. "Want to push," he says thickly. "Want to!"

"You're not quite ready," she says, with that infuriating calm. "Try not to, if you can."

Sherlock drops his head and moans again, arches his back and makes a hoarse, ragged sound.

John swallows, and goes to fetch the cup of ice from the table; Suzy-Lucy follows him to put down one of her instruments, flashing him a glance which seems to combine sympathy and mild contempt. John sees himself for a second through her eyes; so many careless Omegas, taking their fertility for granted, treating it as boring, annoying; so many useless Alphas, panicking and demanding the impossible, wandering off to hit on unaccompanied Omegas, in the way and clueless and completely out of their depth.

"He's fine," she says. "The body knows what it needs. He's progressing well."

John swallows. "He just. I. Does he even know that I'm here?"

Her eyes narrow; her tone is noticeably sharper. "Of course he does. It's a very demanding process, he doesn't exactly have a lot of attention to spare."

John can only suppose that his face looks just as wretched as he feels, because her gaze softens noticeably after a few seconds. "He's doing well, he really is," she says in an undertone. "He's listening to his body, he's doing the right things. He wouldn't be able to go this deep unless he felt safe, I promise you."

A little of the weight that has sat on his shoulders for seven hours, for seven months, slips away. "Okay. Okay. I just... is there anything I can do?"

She nods briskly, drops back to her knees by Sherlock's side. John follows her. "Sherlock," she says gently. "I think your alpha can help you. Can you sit up for a minute?"

Sherlock heaves a painful breath, pushes back onto his knees, keeping his head hung low and his eyes shut. She silently urges John closer until he is kneeling opposite Sherlock, and then lifts Sherlock's arms and puts them around his neck. "Hold on," she says gently, shuffling them closer still until their knees are touching and Sherlock's belly is pressing lightly against John's body. A flicker of warmth spreads through John as Sherlock's arms tighten around him, but it is dispelled quickly as he feels the muscles of Sherlock's belly tighten and crawl, and he cries out sharply as another contraction ripples through his body. Sherlock sags a little onto his knees; John can feel it somehow, the dragging pressure, the weight, the inexorable remorseless pull. He holds Sherlock fiercely, breathes in his thick coppery scent. Sherlock turns his face into John's neck, and John strokes his sweaty hair.

Time blurs, a little, into a haze of breath and cries and pain that throbs remorselessly through Sherlock and echoes weakly in John.

Sherlock's grip on John has weakened as the contractions have grown more-or-less continuous; it's close now, John doesn't have to be told, very close. Sherlock lets him go and falls back on all fours, arching his back and rocking his hips. "Need to push," he says frantically. "Need to push!"

"Ten centimetres," Suzy-Lucy says quietly. "It's time."

Sherlock gives an agonised groan, visibly gathers up all his strength, and bears down.

"Again," she says.

Sherlock wails, pants for breath, tries again.

"Again."

It is relentless. It is terrible.

"Again."

John's knees on the floor have gone past pain and into numb. His mouth is dry.

"Push. Again."

Sherlock is flagging; his breathing takes on a desperate rasp.

"Once more, Sherlock."

"Can't!" Sherlock says, and for the first time he sounds truly panicked. "Can't, can't!"

"You can," Suzy-Lucy says calmly. "One more. You can."

Sherlock arches his back and screams.

There is a moment of unknown length, of compressed time and jumbled sensation, and then she is drawing back, _something_ dark and bloody in her hands. A thin and petulant cry splits the air.

"It's a girl," says Suzy-Lucy, sounding irritatingly and obscenely pleased.

The trembling weight of Sherlock is against John's body. He is a mess; his hair is plastered to his face in ragged clumps, his breathing is rough and uneven, and he is wet with sweat and smeared with blood. John wraps an arm around him gently, looking into hazy eyes. They are only half-open, but they seem to be focusing on John for the first time in hours. The room is heavy with the primitive smell of birth.

"John," he says, his voice scratchy and rough, and overwhelming warmth floods through John, turning into a string of unstoppable words -

"Oh my God love you did it you did it she's here that was the most fucking amazing thing I've ever seen she's here I can't believe it I love you so fucking much that was incredible I can't believe it _she's here -_ "

The midwife puts her gently in Sherlock's arms, and he responds dazedly. He is bleary and distant, staring down as though she is something he can't quite see, and crying out weakly as the after-pains shake him. John feels the first cold tremor curl at his heart, although he pushes it aside in favour of gazing adoringly at his daughter's face. The midwife fusses around them both; John disregards her entirely. There are long moments of silence, of stillness; she startles and fusses and then settles and seems to drift and words don't seem necessary. John is enraptured. John is... content.

It's not until he sees Sherlock's arms start to waver and he darts forward to support them that other things start to register. The coordination bleeding out of Sherlock's body; the _smell,_ heavy, dark, red, too much of it, wrong wrong wrong; it's too much but there's no wound, if there was a wound he'd know what to do, _what does he do?_

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock is gone.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft has judged it prudent, given the average length of labour for healthy primigravid omegas in their thirties and what he was able to read from his brother's mate's face, to return to the waiting room. It is hardly the first time, after all, that he has spent all night in Whitehall, and although his work cannot be neglected, he may as well make a point of conceding to the little doctor's requests long enough to attend in person. He glances at the clock, now pushing 4am, and reads placidly through some files, maintaining half an eye on the frankly unsavoury company he is sharing space with. One Alpha woman who knows (of course) the child isn't hers, and is pretending it doesn't bother her; a Beta accountant who hates her brother's Omega and has a business meeting in the morning she is considering cancelling; one set of parents of a teenager (father an electrician), who encouraged him to keep the baby but are concerned about her job prospects. He shifts slightly and tilts the paperwork higher.

Evidently John has been told of his arrival, because he sees the man's face briefly through the glass panel in the door, and his spine stiffens instantly. On some level he registers his hands shuffling the paperwork to one side while his mind clicks into gear and John pushes the door open _marked tension in small muscles around the eyes hair dishevelled on left side in particular John is left-handed ran hands through it Sherlock muscle tension down right side presages recurrence of limp which is typically associated with feelings of helplessness wearing blue hospital scrubs two inches too long for him freshly washed conclusion borrowed when his own clothes oh God Sherlock red crusting around fingernails washed hands recently but a perfunctory scrub only despite surgeon's training mind elsewhere red smear on left-hand side of scrub top near hem consistent with consistent with error error _

_Sherlock_

He is not aware that he is on his feet until John stops in front of him.

"Mycroft."

"John." He hates the betraying rising inflection that turns it into a question.

John puts a hand over one eye, opens the other wide, exhales hard. Looks at his feet. "A girl. Seven pounds five. She's fine."

"Sherlock?"

John's hand slips to partially cover his mouth _emotional tell doesn't want to say it_ and inhales deeply. Mycroft Holmes does not tremble. Mycroft Holmes tells himself sternly to remember his responsibilities.

"He had... he had a rough time. He lost a lot of blood. He'll be OK, but... He had, it was, it was bad."

"Can I see him?"

The words are out before he is aware of thinking them. John's eyes widen slightly, his mouth compresses, his head inclines _surprised annoyed considering_. Mycroft knows what the answer is before he receives it.

"No."

Mycroft may be feeling unaccountably out of his own control, but he is still the British Government. He inclines one eyebrow pointedly. "I am his brother, John. If there is anything to be decided," he swallows, "he will need my help, and you will need my input."

John exhales again, visibly weakening. The words _but he's just worried; Sherlock would be furious; but what if..?; he needs to rest_ scroll across his face as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud.

"Not tonight, Mycroft. I mean it. He's not awake, anyway. When he wakes up, I'll speak to him, but..."

_But he probably won't want to see you, especially when he's feeling vulnerable (is vulnerable)._ Mycroft knows.

"How long will he be here?"

John shrugs expansively. The slight tremor in his left hand is radiating down from his shoulder; his face sags slightly with exhaustion and emotion, but not with the kind of fear that Mycroft is looking for. Sherlock has scared John, he is afraid still, but he would not have left Sherlock's room if he truly feared for the worst. "A few days, maybe. It depends how he does. Look, I'll... text, in the morning. I need to get back. OK?"

Mycroft gathers up his papers. The one dignity that always remains is to control your exit. "Very well. A car will be at your disposal if you need to return to Baker Street. Please call Anthea if you need anything. And..." He halts momentarily, bites his lip. "Doctor Watson?"

John turns. "Yeah?"

Mycroft smiles, thinly and tremulously. "Congratulations, John."

John sits. John watches: the insistently ticking wall clock, the slow creep of sunlight through the half-opened blinds, the measured drip of dark liquid from the suspended bag, the snuffles, whimpers, and tiny shifts and movements of the baby in her cot in the corner. He could hardly bear to lay her down, but now that she is sleeping quietly, he does not dare to pick her up.

John does not watch: Sherlock's face.

Something on the level of his bones keeps insisting that this bright busy hospital is wrong, wrong, _wrong_; that he needs to take them somewhere small and safe and dark where all three of them can be naked and he can taste every pulse point on both their bodies. He looks again at the blood dripping through its narrow tube into Sherlock and reminds himself very firmly why this cannot be so.

Sherlock sleeps. Sherlock sleeps with a stillness that makes the doctor in John, fighting with and generally losing to the sleepless and half-maddened Alpha, think words he wishes to keep at bay. Words like _coma_ and _lack of responsiveness_. Thank God John's not required to be anything like a competent doctor right now; he probably barely has it in him to splint a broken finger. All he can do is remind himself that everything has been checked, that everything has been done, that Mycroft by now probably owns the hospital director and will not hesitate to subject him to something involving thumbscrews if anything goes wrong.

John sits. John waits.

They have been moved to the main hospital and to the supervision of a rather patronising junior doctor, and she sweeps into the room again shortly after 7am, managing to give off an air of having rather more important places to be but magnanimously doing her duty towards them. _Stop it stop it stop it,_ John thinks, and arranges his face into what he hopes is a polite and receptive expression.

"Mr... Watson?"

"It's doctor, actually. I'm a GP."

"Ah." She bustles, checks the blood-pressure readout, notes something on Sherlock's chart. "Well, Dr Watson, your partner looks fine. He'll likely be very weak and tired for the next week or so, but there should be no permanent damage." _Except to John._ "I think we'll want to keep him overnight, but unless things deteriorate, we should discharge him at some point tomorrow."

This news, John thinks, should probably be more comforting than it is. He rubs at his scratchy jaw and contemplates another 24 hours here, in borrowed too-big scrubs and the traces of Sherlock he can't bear to wash off yet, dripping terrible coffee on himself and feeling his insides convulse every time he looks at food. "Okay. I, uh... okay. It's good that he's being taken care of. It's just... hard to see him so still. And, erm, quiet." He quirks a smile. "It's not like him, you know?"

She flashes a brief and slightly pained smirk of her own. "So I hear."

John remembers how fast word travels in a hospital, and flushes.

The doctor appears to be fast losing interest in John's domestic problems. "Make sure he stays hydrated and rests a lot. I'm sure you can monitor him at home, and the health visitor will come round within a week or so to check on them both." She finishes her fussing with the chart and looks John square in the eye. "And I would recommend that you abstain from intercourse for at least six weeks."

John is fairly sure that this is what it feels like to have your jaw literally drop. The doctor stares back; her eyes are hard. She's a beta, specialising in omega obstetrics and gynaecology. John knows what that means. He swallows.

"I wouldn't. I mean, I... I never would. I'm… You have to believe me." He becomes aware of how that just sounded and shuts his mouth abruptly.

She shifts her attention back to the chart, then her watch. "As you say, Dr. Watson. His heat won't return for a while in any case, and not while he's nursing. But I would recommend caution nonetheless."

John licks his lips. "When will he... wake up?"

She flickers her eyes at him, seems to soften a little. "There's no medical reason preventing him from doing so now," she says delicately. "When he's ready is all I can say, doctor. His body will need time to recover. Just be patient."

There is a squeak from the plastic cot in the corner, and she smiles at him for the first time, a real smile, even as she replaces the chart and prepares to move on. "Sounds like someone else wants some attention," she says, tapping the side of the cot as she walks past it. She's not so bad, John thinks. Probably just coming off an overnight shift. Maybe she has children of her own. Sherlock would be able to observe her body and the state of her fingernails or clothes and tell him, no doubt.

_Sherlock._

John scoops the baby up awkwardly even as her noises escalate into a full-throated wail, and cradles her against his shoulder, instinctively making quiet shushing noises. He glances over his shoulder; Sherlock hasn't stirred. A new midwife bustles in (morning shift now), helps him hold her, feed her, lay her down again as her eyelids droop. Her matted dark hair and hazy blue eyes hurt, somehow, like tiny splinters under his fingernails he can feel every time he touches them. This isn't right, it's not _right_, that he should be learning her weight and her smell and the feel of her skin alone. Sherlock will be furious.

John dozes, and watches. He gives in, and texts Anthea to arrange for clothes to be brought round from Baker Street, pointedly not asking how exactly Mycroft's people will get in. He texts pictures of Baby Girl Holmes to Sarah and Harry and Mrs. Hudson, and smiles halfheartedly at Harry's cautious congratulations, more at Mrs. Hudson's earnest and capslock-ridden joy. And he waits.

It is early afternoon before Sherlock begins to sleep more restlessly, eyelids flickering and his head shifting from side to side. The transfusion drip has long since been replaced with saline; John pushes the stand back slightly and perches on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand along the edge of Sherlock's face and through the disaster of his hair. "Hey," he says quietly. "Sherlock, you there?"

Sherlock seems to swim up from unconsciousness as through treacle, and blinks at him slowly for a few seconds. John watches his eyes begin to dilate in panic, but doesn't realise why until Sherlock makes a weak grab at his own belly.

John grabs at his wrist. "Hey! Hey. It's all right. She's right here, she's fine. See?" He shifts aside to give Sherlock a view of the cot; Sherlock's head falls back on the pillow with a breathy exhale. "You've been out for a while, love. How much do you remember?"

Sherlock blinks again while the question percolates into his consciousness; his tongue still seems thick and slow. "I remember you were there," he says eventually. "It hurt, and was so dark, and then... I don't know." He seems to be keeping his eyelids apart mostly by an effort of will.

"You had a serious postpartum haemorrhage," John says softly; somehow, he feels he owes it to Sherlock to use precisely the language he would use himself were he more alert. "It's rare, but... You passed out, and they had to stop the bleeding and transfuse you. The baby's fine, though. She's been sleeping nearly as much as you." He forces a smile.

"Mmmm." Sherlock turns his head to the side and sighs into the pillow. "Tired."

The coldness prickles at John's heart. "Don't you want to see her?"

Sherlock jerks his eyes open again. "Oh. Yes." He struggles to push the covers back. "Help me - help me up."

The midwife, with her eerie, almost Holmesian way of sensing when she's needed, chooses this moment to pad quietly back into the room and pick up the baby while John is easing Sherlock into a more propped-up position. "Here," she says, settling her against his chest. "Do you want to feed her? It's probably not too late."

John winces at that, but for once it seems to pass entirely above Sherlock's head; he seems more alert, and is staring down with a degree of the familiar fascination at the quietly snuffling creature in his arms. Fortunately, she is single-minded and untroubled by any trepidation, and turns her head immediately to latch on.

Sherlock inhales shakily, and his eyelids flutter. "Oh," he says softly. The midwife (John has given up on their names) is smiling; he takes this as grounds to chance a smile of his own.

"What does it feel like, love?"

Sherlock hitches another breath. "Odd."

He can feel himself really smiling now. "Yeah, you're really painting a picture for me, here."

Sherlock doesn't reply, but he's got his eyes fully open at last; he doesn't seem to dare to move his hands from where they've been positioned on the baby, but he extends one finger gently, and begins to trace it behind her ear. The midwife, taking her cue as accurately as ever, silently sees herself out. John gives into the impulse and presses himself as close to Sherlock's side as he can get, insinuating a possessive arm around his waist.

"You were amazing, you know," he says softly.

Sherlock plays gently with the ends of her hair, not looking up. "It's hardly a notable achievement, John. Everyone manages, more or less."

John tightens his arm. "I don't care. I was there, and you were. So shut up."

A faint flicker of a smile plays at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Illogical, but if you must."

This seems as good a moment as any, and John is confident that he has only won reprieve for so long, so: "Mycroft wants to see you."

Sherlock flinches. "Oh God."

"I know, love. I'll put him off as long as you want me to, but you have to let him see her some time, and he's been worried about you, same as me. Besides, knowing him, he probably has an entire security team busy trying to figure out what's going on in here. So... will you see him?"

Still gazing at his daughter's face, it takes a few seconds to realise that the sarcastic comment he expected is not forthcoming. Sherlock's eyes are glazing, and his head is beginning to droop.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock jerks awake again. "Oh. Yes. Fine, let him in," he says, with a show of bravado that might have fooled John for several minutes a year ago.

"Okay." With any luck, it will be while he's sleeping, John thinks. Once he has sent the text and flicked his phone back into his pocket, he gently relieves Sherlock of the baby, whose eyes are closing, and resettles him onto the pillow.

"We have to decide what to name her, you know." Somehow they'd never managed to agree beforehand.

"Mmmm." Sherlock is drifting. "Yes."

John smiles wearily, feeling his own fatigue breathing warmly down the back of his neck, and goes in search of more terrible coffee.

John is worried.

They are home, all of them. But they are not the same.

Sherlock is weaker than John has ever seen him. He sleeps and sleeps; sleeps as though the sleep debt of years is catching up with him. He wakes to feed the baby, sleeps again; sometimes falls asleep while nursing her, and John won't notice until she starts to cry. He woke to a wail at 2am a few nights ago; Sherlock was deeply under, and it took John, in his own confused and half-panicked state, a solid two minutes of shaking him hard to realise that Sherlock's eyes were wide and fixed on his, and he was saying urgently, "I'm awake, John. John. I'm awake." He is still horribly pale; when he is on his feet for any length of time he gets dizzy. He fainted once before they managed to leave the hospital; twice since returning home, and John hasn't forgotten seeing him insist that he was fine to get out of bed, then paling alarmingly and falling back against the pillow as soon as he tried to bear any weight on his feet.

When he is not sleeping he is listless; more than once John has found him simply staring. And he seems to remember little of the hours in which he sweated and fought and John stood by and could do nothing.

After a few days, he sent a terse text to Sarah: _Going to need more than two weeks. Needed at home._ Sarah's reply was speedy and warm, urging him to take all the time he needed and to let her know when he could come back; he deleted the text quickly, feeling wretchedly undeserving of such unquestioned support. His text to Greg had been more circumspect_; Don't bring any cases for a while. Sherlock needs some time._ Greg, too, answered promptly: _Understood mate. Nothing till u let me know its ok. Hope baby not keeping you up too much._

How to begin to explain?

John's not sure what would be worse at this point: that Sherlock leapt out of bed to follow Lestrade out on a case, or that he didn't.

The visit from Mycroft, too, sticks in his memory. Sherlock had not in fact been asleep when they had heard the tapping of polished shoes in the corridor, and the door swinging open with a tasteful, moneyed hush. Mycroft had entered and paused quietly, his eyes frozen on the bed. John's eyes flicked to Sherlock, knowing he was in every position he hated to be in when faced with Mycroft; ghastly pale, vulnerable, too wobbly on his feet even to stand, much less escape. Sherlock's eyes darted away from Mycroft's for a second; then he quietly lifted his chin, meeting his brother's eyes with a square and unexpected calm. There was a moment of... _something_, of a communication between the two on a level that wholly excluded John; then Mycroft dropped his eyes to John, gave a brief acknowledging jerk of his chin, and turned and went out. Sherlock had silently passed him back the baby and avoided his eyes for a few seconds. He should not resent, he knows, that there are things about the brothers he still doesn't understand; they have known each other for much longer than either of them have known him, and God knows that for all Sherlock can deduce about his history with Harry, he can't penetrate or understand the knot of responsibility and duty and bitterness and guilt and longing that ties them together more closely, perhaps, than love ever could.

He resents. He is frightened and angry and there is nothing for him to _do._ He has never felt so alone in his life.

He misses sex, too; it has always been a way to communicate when words failed_. I forgive you. We're still alive. You scared me. I love you._ He thinks of the doctor's cold stare.

The baby is... well. She is hard to understand. Sometimes she cries because she is hungry, and sometimes because she is wet, and sometimes she just seems to cry. John is already becoming used to starting up out of a doze at that piercing, heart-rending sound. Possibly the worst part is that sometimes she can only be soothed by handing her back to Sherlock. After the third time this happens, John rubs a hand against his bristly jaw and tells himself firmly that grown men do not get their feelings hurt by newborns.

Sherlock sees the flicker of his expression and quirks an eyebrow in John's general direction. "She lived in me for nine months and I smell of her food, John. I don't think it's personal."

"Yeah, well," John mutters. "It's pretty hard not to feel like the useless one around here at the moment."

Sherlock, when he looks up, is lost in his own head again. John's throat feels raw.

Has he mentioned that, despite the lack of case, Sherlock isn't eating?

Sherlock isn't eating. He picks listlessly at whatever John puts in front of him, then shoves it away when he catches John watching him. John has never been fooled by _eating slows me down_, and isn't fooled by _I'm not hungry_, either. After the day of Goddamn It, Sherlock, It's Normal To Put On Weight When You Have A Baby, You _Need_ To, You Can't Recover Much Less Feed The Baby If You Won't Fucking _Eat_, John decides he needs a medical consult.

**To: Sarah Sawyer**

_Need some medical advice. OK if I drop round to the surgery later? J_

**From: Sarah Sawyer**

_Of course. Finishing at 5:30 today patients willing, any time after that. Take care. Sx_

John hasn't left either of them alone for any length of time for two weeks now, and he feels as guilty as a thief as he steals out the door, leaving Mrs. Hudson dusting and watching over her in the living room. He finds himself curling and uncurling his fingers restlessly, pressing his nails into his palm as he walks rapidly towards the surgery. He lets himself in at the back door with his keys; he already knows that the receptionists will be ready to descend in a flutter of cooing if he makes the mistake of showing his face at the front.

Sarah looks up from her paperwork with a tired but genuine smile as he knocks at the office door.

"John! How are you? How's the baby?"

"I'm fine, fine. She's fine, she's good. Sleeps a lot." He lets himself smile a little. "I suppose she's like any baby, but you never want to believe that, do you?"

She flicks a grin at him. "I suppose so. And what do I call her, anyway? Surely you've settled on a name by now?"

"Er, no, actually. Haven't managed much discussion, and what we do manage, we don't agree on. Ridiculous, I know." He's grinding a toe into the industrial carpet; he forces himself to stop. He's seen patients in this room, a few times. Sat at the desk, smiled at them politely, exuded confidence and reassurance as he told them what was wrong. Told them they'd be better soon. Sarah is waiting. He clears his throat.

"No, it's, ah, she's fine. It's more... me, really."

"John," Sarah says softly.

"It's..." He exhales, hard. "I think I broke Sherlock."

"John."

"No, really. I know it's insane but... he's just not him. I mean, he's scarily not him. He doesn't talk and he won't eat and he's not interested in anything and he's weaker than I've ever seen him and... I don't know what to do. And I couldn't think of anyone else to talk to. I'm really sorry, Sarah, I know that one of the stupidest things in the world is to come to your ex with all the problems with your current, I'm an arsehole, I'm sorry. But Christ, I'm just so worked up right now and he needs me and... I'm letting him down. I am. I'm such an idiot."

Sarah has quietly manoevred him, somehow, to sit down in the chair beside her desk; her hand is on his shoulder. He takes a shuddering breath and stares hard at the floor.

"It was hard, wasn't it?" she asks?

John's head jerks up. "What was?"

"Watching." Her blue eyes are full of quiet understanding.

"Er. Yeah." He swallows again. "I didn't know. I just... didn't know."

"It's normal, John."

Anger sparks, suddenly. "Is it? Really? No it's not, Sarah! Whatever normal is... this isn't it."

Whatever Sarah might feel about being yelled at in her own place of work by her employee and ex-boyfriend, she doesn't flinch or look away, and John loves her a little, in that moment, her hidden strength, her seeing eyes.

"Maybe not normal, then, but it's going to be OK. It is. It's hard, it's really hard to watch someone go through that, and then to have it go wrong just when you thought it was over... it's a shock, John. It's a big shock. But it'll get better. Sherlock will be fine, he has a lot to recover from. It takes time. You've seen it before, it's just harder to see right now. Give it time, John. Please."

"You're right, I know. You're... right. I'll try."

Her hand is warm and solid. "I know I am, John. And bring her in soon, won't you? The receptionists saw the picture, they're mad to meet her, and you know what it's like around here when they get stroppy."

He leaves feeling a little lighter.

He flicks awake between one heartbeat and the next, a few nights later, and rubs at his eyes, trying to pinpoint what has triggered the soldier's watchfulness.

"I miss her."

Sherlock is lying poker-straight and rigid, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. It takes John a few minutes to process his words.

"Hmmm? She's right over there, love. Are you OK? Were you dreaming?"

"I wasn't dreaming." Sherlock doesn't move. "I just... miss her."

John spots the hand, lying loosely on Sherlock's belly, and _understands._

"It's... different, now?"

"Mmmm." Sherlock's eyes close. "She was... she was safe, before. She was always with me."

Exhaustion, having politely hovered outside for a few minutes, abruptly makes its re-entry. Whatever this is, it's too goddamn late for it. John rolls away onto his side. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"Hmmmm." Sherlock doesn't move.

When John gets back from Tesco on Friday morning, Sherlock is up and feeding the baby on the sofa.

John drops the bags in the kitchen and, rubbing the small of his back, turns to look. "You're beautiful," he says under his breath, because he is. Sherlock, hair matted, eyes darkly shadowed, slumped on the couch in the blue silk dressing gown and gently cradling an industriously sucking baby, is beautiful. Sherlock hears him; the pale eyes flick up towards John's face and then lower back to the baby's, where he is tracing his free hand lightly through her dark hair.

John sighs, and flicks the kettle on. "You want something to eat, love?"

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"This is not funny, Sherlock. You can't keep this up for much longer. Will you just eat some fucking breakfast? For me."

Sherlock's eyes don't move. "I'm not keeping anything up. I simply don't choose to eat when I'm not hungry and it's unnecessary."

"Going to slow you down from your current breakneck pace, is it?" John says sarcastically.

"I don't believe I asked for your opinion. Nor are you, in fact, registered as my doctor. Your residual and useless guilt is not my concern."

John is aware of the thinness of the thread that has been holding back his anger only when it snaps.

"Oh, so we're talking about this now, are we? Jesus, Sherlock. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, but John can see the muscles of his jaw and forehead tightening as he stares defiantly downwards.

"No, seriously. What? What is wrong with you? Jesus Christ," John mutters. "We are never doing this again."

Sherlock's head snaps up viciously at that, his eyes narrowing. "_Why not."_

"Why not? Why not?" John is aware that he seems to have lost control of his tone; the baby, having nursed herself almost to sleep, startles awake with a wail, and Sherlock shifts her to his shoulder. "Because things are going so well right now? Because you enjoyed being pregnant so much, and you're doing great at the minute?"

"So my opinion doesn't matter, John?" Sherlock's words are edged with ice. "We didn't plan this baby. Are you going to force me to get rid of it if it happens again?"

Just those words, _get rid of it_, pulls it tight, the grip like a fist that the baby, that fragile pink newborn universe, already has around his heart. He understands Jefferson Hope a little better than he used to; at any moment, something might happen to her, and if it does he will die. He becomes aware that he is standing over the couch, looming above his pale-faced mate in half-unbuttoned shirt and their sobbing, hiccupping baby with his chest shaking with anger. He inhales the words he wants to scream back into his chest with a painful effort.

"Sherlock. I... God, no. I couldn't force you to do anything, you know that. But I'm afraid we might've made the biggest mistake of our lives here, and it's not just about you and me any more. Is it."

"That notwithstanding." Sherlock's gaze skitters past him. "To continue the pregnancy was my decision. I will not be... _infantilised _by your suggesting otherwise."

"You nearly DIED!" John shouts, and this is it, he has lost every shred of control. "You nearly _bled to death_ right in front of me and there wasn't a thing that I could do. Do you even remember? Or are you pretending that you don't?"

Sherlock seems to struggle for a few seconds; his face twists into a kind of pained scowl that John thinks, hysterically, he might find it funny if it weren't for the blood rushing painfully in his ears. "Melodramatic, John. I'm fine."

A choked and bitter laugh escapes. "No, you are not. You're not fine. You can barely walk across the flat without getting dizzy, for Christ's sake. You're not fine. And I'm not fine." He draws in a long, long breath, in a silence punctuated only by the diminishing wails of a sleepy baby. "What are we going to do, Sherlock?"

At last: Sherlock looks at him. "The best we can, I suppose," he says, a hint of shaky humour underpinning his voice. "Isn't that what people do?"

"You have to tell me _why_, Sherlock," John pleads, dropping down heavily to sit on the coffee table. "Why did you do this? Please."

"Because I _wanted to_," Sherlock grits out, and John can see his fingers tensing against her back, knows that she's the only thing stopping Sherlock from shouting back just as loudly. "I told you I didn't do things I don't want to, and I meant it."

"All right. Cards on table. Now." John crosses his arms. "Why?"

Sherlock opens his mouth; closes it; opens. "Because... because she's yours," he says helplessly. "Yours, and mine, and... I didn't expect it, and I would never have asked you. But she was there, and I couldn't... I couldn't." He bites his lip.

John's mouth feels full of cotton wool; his heart is scratching painfully against his ribs. He reaches out and smoothes Sherlock's tangled, unwashed hair. "Okay," he says gently. "Okay."

John posts the picture a few days later. It's of the baby alone; Sherlock had point-blank refused to be in it, and in all fairness, he had looked like hell at the time, eyes red-rimmed, hair matted, skin frighteningly pale. She looks... well, she looks like newborns always look, he supposes, but her furled hands and dark hair still make his heart feel swollen and cumbersome. His arm misses her soft and trusting weight.

John titles it "Eveline Sophia (Evie) Holmes, 7lb 5oz, 15/11/13 02:17am". His hand hesitates over the text field; in the end, he simply writes _Thank you,_ and hits Post. He closes the laptop firmly and, rubbing at his tired eyes, goes to make a cup of tea.

Not when Sherlock first dragged John along with him on a case; not when he turned up to a crime scene reeking of well-fucked Omega with the bondbite vivid above his collar; not when his scent became unmistakably that of pregnancy and John had caught Donovan and Anderson glancing skeptically at each other - the Yard has never looked so surprised as when Sherlock steps out of a cab with Evie in a sling across his chest.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake. Only you lot could look surprised at me turning up with a baby forty-five weeks after I _get pregnant."_

Lestrade, after a few seconds of unabashed staring, gives the same kind of mental shrug that John has seen him give dozens of times where Sherlock is involved. "Two bodies, found half an hour ago. No marks on one, the other has what looks like bicycle tyre tracks across it for some bloody reason. Not killed here, we think. No apparent connection between them."

"I have approximately forty-five minutes before she wakes up. Show me. Quickly."

Lestrade's mouth quirks. "Approximately? Don't think I've ever heard you use that word, and I;ve known you seven years now."

Sherlock shifts his hand inside his coat to cradle her head. "She's annoyingly imprecise," he says, and Lestrade breaks into a half-grin.

"Okay. Sally, take him," says Lestrade, and Donovan complies, a faint twist to her lips which looks more mixed than her usual straightforward contempt.

Lestrade lingers, and he's looking at John, his smile now dispelled into an aura of faint worry. John can read the question before it's spoken.

"It's all right. She's happier with him. Seriously." The look doesn't fade, and after a minute or two John has to laugh out loud at _the are you really is he really should you really...?_ in Lestrade's eyes. It's not like he never had the same questions himself. "No, really. She's fine. He's fine. He's still... you know, Sherlock, but he won't let anything happen to her."

"John!" the subject of discussion shouts from somewhere near the riverbank.

John smiles at Lestrade, hitches the bag of Evie's things onto his shoulder, and follows.


End file.
